


It's Just A little Crush

by ineedthislikeaholeinthehead



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineedthislikeaholeinthehead/pseuds/ineedthislikeaholeinthehead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was supposed to be a harmless little text inspired by a very good picture of Tom.  But it ballooned out of control and has taken up most of my day.  Little to no regrets.</p>
<p>Thanks to lifethroughapinhole and asswipeprincess for beta, and Tom for being a lovely muse.</p>
<p>Also, obviously I don't own anyone or anything, other than a dirty mind and the ability to bother my g/f with lewd and or angsty rpf on perhaps a too regular basis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Just A little Crush

He looks at you as you look down the barrel of his gun.

You gulp hard, because even though this is just a line reading and you're not expected to do anything more than help him rehearse, he's got this, and his enthusiasm for the rehearsal is more than you've seen some actors put on actual film.

You know in your head that the gun is the prop table fake you were not supposed to be goofing around with this morning. You remember clearly getting the evil eye from a prop master when you were harmlessly flirting with the cute prop intern when you picked up that fake gun.

But sitting across from Tom, when he picked it up and aimed it at you- not you- the character you're reading, it doesn't look the way it did.  And you're trying to tell yourself that it's illogical to feel scared.

That's just Tom under the hair and the costume. He's a nice guy. You remember the way he introduced himself to everyone on the first day of shooting. Personally, not just a wave as he walked over to his trailer. It didn't matter if you were below the line or above, he came up, said his name like everyone didn't already know who he was, took yours and shook your hand.

The night after he'd introduced himself to you, you were convinced you could die happily, having successfully met Tom Hiddleston. But you were hired to do a job, and while there were days when that Production Assistant title meant little more glamour than being the girl who delivered new script revisions and coffee to everyone's trailers, today wasn't going quite as you'd expected.

You hadn't expected Tom to open his trailer door when you knocked. He was always congenial on the set, but seemed to prefer uninterrupted solitude in the morning while everyone outside was flirting or telling stories while setting up lights or picking out lenses.  

You two had agreed on a double knock to let him know his pages and coffee had arrived, and you usually leave it in front of the door for him to pick up when he's ready. But this morning he startled you by opening the door, mid knock, half in costume.  

“Are those the new pages?”  He says, hungrily eyeing the goldenrod pages in your hand.

“Yes, Sir.” you say and he attempts a stern look.

“None of this’SIR’-ing now. May I have them?”

You hand over his pages and he scans them like the incredibly quick hawk he is.

Looking over them again he asks, “Do you have half an hour for me?”

Even if this wasn’t in your jurisdiction you would have rushed to answer yes.  

“Can you pick up the prop gun and meet me back here? Our knock so I know it's you?”

And off you ran, high on the realization that he'd just said OUR knock... Not the general PA knock, which is what you'd assumed you had been doing. But now, faced in front of his gun, you shudder.

Acting is supposed to be fun and magical, but all you feel right now is genuinely scared. The look is terrifying and the words are perfect but they aren't the ones on the page you're supposed to be helping him learn and you're almost willing to give up this alone time with Tom Hiddleston because he's just not himself right now.

Then his face softens and he lowers the gun and asks, “Are you alright?”

And he's back and you're embarrassed by how well he’s convinced you. And you apologize because you didn't know how to tell him the lines had been changed and he curses and says he's sorry- what could he possibly be sorry for? He has the character down, why do the lines need to change? You shrug.  
  
"Can you read them to me again?" And he sits there, his eyes closed, listening intently as your voice doesn't do justice to the words on the stupid yellow paper, and he's so gorgeous and so talented you sort of hate him for it. You finish the lines and he looks up at you.

“Again?” he requests and you oblige.

Two times, three times more before he's ready to read again.

He hands the gun over to you.

“I think I can do it without the prop better first.” and he does and it's just as haunting without the gun on you.

“Did I miss anything?” he asks and you say no, but you hand him the gun and ask him if he's ready to do it with the whole package because you know his call time is coming up and you want to see him scare the living shit out of every single crew member  
*****  
It's a hectic night and you're filled with a lot of opposite emotions that there aren’t enough time to process.

Last scheduled night for you, for the whole crew really. How did it come so fast?

Over the past three weeks, so much has changed, but you have no idea what it means.

You were on the lowest rung of the totem pole when you started.

How can it have really been less than a month? How could Tom’s studio hired personal assistant abandon him in the middle of the shoot?

Did he really request you to be moved over to fill the slot personally like you'd heard through whispered gossiping, or was it just dumb luck?  And after 3 weeks as his go to girl, what happens tonight when the AD yells "wrap!"?

 You don't want to say goodbye to the early morning line reading, or the late night texts that are perfectly charming but still too professional for you to hope for anything after the studio stops paying your salary.

You've got a gig lined up for next week and in this business; you have to take the work you get, especially if you don't get a better offer.

True, a “better” offer from Tom wouldn't necessarily have to mean _more_ money. It could just mean he wants to keep you around for the _same_ amount of money.

You're good at script coverage and you're great at scheduling and you don't want to put Tom on the spot, but you also don't want him to think you wouldn't give up next week’s pa job for him.

It all feels awkward and crazy and you don't know if you're going to have the balls to approach him all the way up until that fateful moment when the lights go out.

The last takes done and Tom is alone on the set, and without the words, and the lights and the camera he just looks lonely and small. You try to busy yourself but everyone but you has been dying for this moment to come- for the studio sponsored festivities two blocks away to begin; so there aren't loose ends to pick up, and he sees you waiting for him.

“Ready to celebrate?” you ask, but there doesn't seem to be much life behind either of your collectively gorgeous eyes.

“I'm sorry. I don't mean to bring you down. I just hate endings like this.’ He says and he's right.

It’s not like a play, the show isn't really over here and the climax was shot last week. He was so adorable that night, heady and drunk on his own performance.

If he'd kissed you, I mean come on how many nights had you stayed up dreaming that he would? Even if only for practice for work…you would have let it slide as intoxication.

You think of how close he'd gotten when he's so close to you now.

The sadness for this anti-climatic end isn't the only thing you feel from him. The silence you're sharing is unusual.

You want to end it... No, you want _him_ to end it. But there's nothing polite to say here, so you make a leap for it.

“I'm sorry.” you say and you're not quite sure if you're sorry he is sad or pre-apologizing for the kiss you plant right on his lips.

They're as soft and supple as you'd imagined. And you're not sorry you've done this when you feel his arms wrap around your waist, his lips part and his tongue slide into your mouth.

 It wasn't a calculated risk; it was damned scary to move in on him like this- reckless even, knowing that he's technically your boss, at least for the rest of the night.

But how well has this worked out?  
*************  
  
It's only been a week on this god forsaken job, and all you can think is _“when will it be over?”_

You've put in your time and the director isn't any fun and no one is funny and you just can't get Tom out of your head.

You don't know if you made too much of a fool out of yourself that night and as nice as the kiss was, that's all it seemed to be.

You cry to yourself because, if he's never going to see you again the least he could have done was give you the fucking of your life, the way his hands and lips promised.

But, the gentleman he was, you hope it was just him being respectful; you try not to let the thought creep into your head that he just wasn’t attracted to you at all. That wasn't going to happen.

Afterwards, he smiled at you, embarrassed by the force he'd given to your embrace, and asked if you'd accompany him to the after party and let him buy you a drink.

He did. It was an open bar and he still threw cash down for your gin martini as he elegantly swung you into a closed off alcove. Your heart was beating into your throat but it seemed that all he was trying to do was _talk_ to you.

Oh god, what would you have done for it to be more than just that?

Conversation seemed so muted. He asked where you were off too, what your plans were and you told him you'd be back in the states, you had a regular tv gig that starts back up in another month, until then it's short films and commercials. The summer is always filled with crap work. Except for this movie you say. He laughs.

“Are you sure?”, he asks. You want to kick yourself. He says he might be around your neck of the woods sometime soon and would it be alright to call to when he's in LA? You say you'd like that.

But it's been a week. You'd grown so quickly accustomed to his daily texts, even if they were just coffee orders. You're sad because he hasn't sent a single text, and even though his number sits in your phone, you're terrified to use it, partially because you feel he's made it obvious through his lack of contact that you'd over stepped your boundaries that night, and partially because you don’t know what you'd do if you found out it wasn't his phone number any more.  Your work is done for the night and there are surprisingly a few hours before the sun rises again. Instead of catching up with a few friends who haven’t seen you since you’ve come home, or stealing back a few hours of well-deserved rest, you sit with your phone, willing a text from Tom to come in. You wake up with no new texts the next morning.  
***********************************

It's two months later and you're back at your bill paying talk show job.  
  
It's been a tiring first month and you're happy that things have come into some sort of schedule again.   
  
Then, you see it on the schedule. The name of _that_ movie. Your heart beats.  
  
Please don't let anyone who knows what a fool you made of yourself during the shoot be coming on, you pray, knowing it was inevitable. The guest list is printed the day before. And there's his name.

You want to call out, but who can afford it? Your messy little studio might not be the nicest place in LA, but in order to keep it, you've got to keep going to work.

So you offer to trade donut duty with another PA and are happily hoping to avoid Tom for the few hours you’ll be in such close proximity again.  
  
But of course that doesn't happen. You're sent to the same place for breakfast that the fucker decides to frequent that morning. You curse the gods of awkward coincidences, make your order, and don't know if it would be more painful to be recognized or ignored.

It doesn't matter, Tom is never the kind of man who would ignore a friend, even if that fleeting friendship was short lived and ruined by your hungry lips.

“Hello” he says, honestly sounding happy to see you. You smile and say hi back. He can tell there's some tension in the hug he gives you. You're just trying not to feel. You're not over the fact that you care for him in a way he can't care for you, your only hope is that he senses your rush and doesn't try to catch up.  

You spend half an hour hiding in the bathroom once you get back and deliver your donuts. That night, you want to go out and drink, drink away the smell of him, the feel of him, just please let gin and music wash him off your heart. You have work again in the morning and you aren't spending a day with a broken hearted hang over for a boy you never dated.

So instead you are sober and awake when your phone buzzes. “Do you remember a few months ago, how I kept on forgetting to tell you my breakfast order so I would text it to you in the middle of the night?” It says. And you do. God do you. You text back a simple “Yes.” Not sure what you hope to hear back, or if you want to hear back at all. He texts you again.

“I don't know what I want tomorrow.” You don't respond. He texts back “Can I go with you to pick it out?”

*************  
What a difference breakfast makes! You were never one to eat in the morning, but it's a good habit Tom is teaching you, when he's around, which in the past few months has been more frequent.

You can barely believe that it's been a year since that first kiss, that false start, and already almost 6 months since your “official” relationship started.  

You also can't believe how much you owe to your school girl crush turned- dare you say it?- _Boyfriend._ Of course you dare. The paparazzi last night had asked your name and he'd gladly provided afterwards the words “my girlfriend.” But just hearing it over in your head was enough to stir the butterflies again.

And the way he'd kissed you, the way he'd finally touched you... When you both stumbled into your tiny little apartment that night, you wanted to cringe at the space, you wished you'd asked him if he wanted to hang out at his hotel room, like you'd done so many nights before.

But this night was different, you could feel it.

After slumming the past few months with you, after he saw how you really lived, after all the times he’d asked to come up and you’d found some reason or excuse not to show him, you weren't sure he wouldn't be running for the hills the next morning, and if he did, you wanted to make sure you'd at least gotten to sleep with him once.

Knowing he considered you his girlfriend was just icing on the cake of your plan. It didn’t make it any less nerve wracking, knowing that this was how you lived when you had actually tried to make things look nice.

The table, your bookcase and the nightstand are covered in led candles you'd left on for the effect. You switch on the music and it’s obvious what you're going for here. He grins.

You've been waiting all night for that grin, and you take him to your bed, letting him sit on the edge while you sit on his lap, and finally kiss him like you've been yearning to all night.

He is alert as you grind your hips into his, his fingers slipping under your dress and it’s on the floor in a flash. You undo his shirt slowly, for every second the intensity in his breath rises and you want lap up every sound.

He's loving the lace set you picked out for the night and you place hot kisses in every inch of skin freed from his shirt. He moans as you latch on to that perfect spot on his neck once his shirt is off.

He's tossed aside the gentlemanly role for the lothario, and his hands expertly unclasp your bra, leaving you incredibly more exposed, since you and he both believe in equality, it's only right in your eyes that his trousers be removed, and you help them off with relish to reveal the sneaky little trickster hasn't on any pants.

You marvel for a moment. This isn't exactly a surprise by now but he is an amazing specimen, and he's looking at you like he could tear you apart.  

You don't waste a minute, you're on him and he's taken off your panties and before you know what's happened, he's inside you and it feels so good- a perfect end to a perfect night.

You moan as he thrusts inside you, his every move designed for your pleasure. It washes over you in intense spasms. You'd worry about how foolish you look except that takes more cognitive abilities than you currently have.

He's fucked you into a primal place where all you can think about is him and you and how badly you want him to feel this good too. And you know he does as you arch into his motions, your nails drawing lines but not blood from his shoulders, your tongue and his mingling as sweet screams of desire take you both to the edge of reason and watch as you fly off the cliff into unadulterated bliss.

Your eyes roll back into your head and you don't think they will ever see the same way again.

And in the morning he knows what he wants for breakfast. He makes it in your tiny kitchenette, moves your candles and makes you come to the table and eat with him, and you know he'll stay, no matter what your hovel looks like in the daylight.


End file.
